There's a ringing in my right ear.
I hum to block it out.
The hum becomes annoying.
Neither side of the pillow is the cold side.
My lungs are the first casualty from the war in my head.
That jolt you get when you fall in your dreams and you wake up with your heart beating.
That hasn't gone away for awhile now.
It's like I'm just waiting to hit the ground.
Caught in this constant free fall of fear.
I can't seem to shake the shakes.
Found a picture from last night with a cigarette in my mouth.
I don't smoke though.
There's a rainbow somewhere and over that is where I'm looking to go.
I'm sick of sad songs.
I'm sick of happy songs.
I'm sick of silence and the low murmur of my 10 dollar box fan.
I hate everything that's on my walls.
I'd rather just pitch a tent and call it camp **** yourself.  Population me.
Scribble thoughts as they come.  I've been doing it for years.
I thought I would find purpose in it, but I still don't know why I write what I think.
No one else cares and I sure as hell don't.
I wish I wouldn't ask so much from the sky when I don't appreciate it as is.
Everything is wrong.
I could be as broad as the side of the barn or as specific as ice cubes in the Ramen.
Waiting for the day the Sun doesn't come up.

On top of that, there's something wrong with the lights.

How are you?
I'm fine.
Today, I managed to fake a smile that was believable.
I watched the Cheshire Cat disappear.
I found the bottom of a bottle.  Found myself in the same place.
I found alone.
I found it before, just didn't have a name for it.
Like when you built forts out of covers and cushions and didn't name it Fort Sky til the next day.
We fall to a place where flash lights expand iris's as fast as the drug.
Numb tongues make hollow words sound convincing.
We're still in Fort Sky except we're in our early 20's and the flimsy walls made out of sheets are now concrete and when we were kids, we would make a sky light.
We could only see the ceiling past us but the main reason for it was for fresh air to come in.
I'm breathing in stale recycled nicotine, laced with caffeine aromas topped off with incense and cheap wine.

It's a hangover waiting to happen...but even hangovers are starting to become nice because it makes me not want to leave my bed the whole day.

That's the life goal as of right now.  I realize it's not a very good one and obviously won't work long term, but I need time for my body to heal...Or maybe I won't need something long term.

The hits from semi trucks and me playing barber shop with scissors takes its toll like a 5 lane super highway.

I hope the oven explodes.  Car crash.  Piano falls.  Cartoon.  Whatever.

String me along like an old worn guitar.
Wrap me
around your finger
and tie me in a knot.
I hope it turns
*******
black and blue.

Rip my tattoo
off my skin.
My eyes used to be
so
blue.
I used to
like me.
I used to
find something to get me through the day.

I want to apologize to the trees,
even though I'm sure they feel the same way about me...
I think you're
so much
more beautiful
when
you are dead.